Heart of Flame: The Fifth Crystal Kingdom Novel: Crystal Kingdom, #5

1

Hope In Waves

WHEN RUTTERNESS had spotted the darkness settling down on the horizon, the night had seemed almost as if it would be a mercy. As if it might be something of a relief after the hard day of horse-riding Rut had just been through.

As it was, though, the darkness did nothing to mitigate the stifling heat.

If anything, the air became more humid.

It felt as if sweat oozed from every pore of his skin.

Thoroughly soaking his once-white cotton undershirt.

This morning, when Rut had set out from the tiny village he had stayed at the night before, the female proprietor of the inn—a real battle-axe who had clearly kept a very tightly run ship—had pointed him in this direction; the way to Almber’s Bay, where Rut’s journey would come to an end.

The battle-axe had told him that the shortcut to reach the sea was through a forest.

Well, Rut had come through the forest all right—and he had cuts and bruises all over his body to show for it—but there was still no sign at all of the coastline; let alone the sea. He had got it into his mind that the proprietor of the inn had deliberately deceived him.

He had learned well about the deceptiveness of strangers on his journey thus far . . .

It seemed as if Rut had seen off more than a dozen groups of robbers at this point. They had been somewhat surprised to find their rogue arrows fail to penetrate the armoured leather vest about his chest; and even more surprised still when they found, with a flash of silver, the blade of a sword splitting their skull. He knew that most robbers saw him as a prize catch; as a dough-shaped man on the back of an emaciated horse. But he had used that particular misconception against them; time and time again. He knew that the survivors of these melees would never take an overweight rider for granted in the future; no matter how easy the pickings looked.

Rut had put on the leather armour this morning; but he had tucked it away into one of the saddlebags after about five minutes’ ride out of the village. The weather was simply too stifling.

The way he saw it, if somebody wanted him dead so badly, after he had come all this way, then they could have their wish.

It wasn’t like he had anything to steal, either; he’d run through most of the funds which King Louson Dorf had given him for the journey. All that remained was his sword, his armour and his bedraggled-looking horse.

Perhaps the only solace of the day’s ride had been that fruity smell on the breeze; an odour which he had never previously experienced. It reminded him a little of a bakery; the sweet smells which emanated from within; all those herbs and spices, and who knew whatever else.

And it seemed to come from all around him, wafting about on the cruelly baking-hot breeze. He was sure that he must stink of the scent now, and he vaguely wondered if he ever did reach the sea, whether he’d be able to find an inn which would be glad to put him up for the night. During his travels, he had seen journeymen turned away for all variety of reasons; sometimes because of a sordid appearance, or reputation, but just as often due to a lack of personal hygiene. Not that travellers, like Rut, really had much choice; he himself had had to camp out in the open at night, at times, unable to track down a nearby inn.

And if he didn’t manage to reach the sea before the darkness fully smothered the world surrounding him, then Rut knew he would need to bed down in the open once again.

He stared about himself now.

The ground was lumpy and it had already caught Rut off guard several times; the dips in the terrain catching out his balance, and almost sending him tumbling off the side of his horse. When he glanced back over his shoulder, he could see no trace of the forest he had passed through on his horse that morning. All around him, the world was flat, and lumpy.

In many ways, it reminded him of where he had grown up; in Quagsmile, one of the Northern Villages—the villages to the north of Ilsnare. There the ground had been flat for miles around; all of it flattened for farmland, only the odd tree, here and there, by way of variation. It was difficult to believe that, at one time, those plains had been his entire life.

The grass was cut short here—grazing cattle?—and he could see large patches of sand protruding from between the gaps: a sort of deceptive promise that a sandy beach might be just around the corner.

Already, Rut found himself longing to experience a beach—to experience the sea. Ever since he had met Lou, he had found himself swept along on a wave of adventure. He had experienced the plains—so much of the plains!—and the foothills of the Sable Mountains. But, when he’d been en route to Onderswort, the prison colony, and to the coast which would provide his gateway there, Lou had—thankfully—broken him and Sulliman free.

Soon after Lou had been appointed King of Shellacnass, Rut had found himself appointed: Rutterness, Royal Guardian of the Waterways.

Ironically, though, this work hadn’t allowed Rut so much as a single journey to the sea.

His work had maintained him, without exception, inland; mostly in helping to solve disputes between farmers, about who could do what with which irrigation.

To be honest, Rut had been glad when Lou had summoned him back to the Crystal City with the promise of something far ‘meatier’ for him to sink his teeth into.

The adventure he was on now.

As Rut rode onward, feeling the stiff muscles of his horse beneath him, and listening to its shallow breaths, he realised that he really was going to have to stop for the night out here. That he was going to need to give his horse a break.

Resigned to this fact, Rut swivelled on the saddle, and instantly felt a rush of blood to his head for his trouble. The heat really was getting to him more than he cared to admit. When Lou had first informed him that he would need to travel to the tropics, Rut had believed that it would be nothing save paradise . . . and perhaps it was that when there was no sense of urgency, when there weren’t objectives to be taken care of; tasks to be completed.

Horses to be ridden.

Rut was hanging off the side of his horse when something caught the corner of his eye. He paused his motion, half having helped himself down from his horse. He was used to this time of day; when the darkness hadn’t quite yet reached its fullest, and the sunlight continued to dribble out from over the horizon. It was a time that played tricks on the mind. Sometimes he fancied seeing things that weren’t there at all.

Like he did now.

And yet, he was certain.

Realising that his horse was breathing heavily and, more than likely, about to keel over if he retained his current pose, he dropped down to the ground; feeling the welcoming springiness of the sandy earth beneath his feet.

Rut gazed off in the direction of the object which’d caught his attention.

He squinted hard, feeling the wrinkles form in his brow.

What was that?

The daylight had all but crept away now, and the darkness continued to drape itself over the entire landscape. And yet, just over there—just over the hill—Rut could make out something apparently metal glimmering away . . . if a scrap of daylight hadn’t continued to leak out across the world then Rut would’ve convinced himself that it was the reflection of the moon on something metal.

No matter how long Rut continued to stare at the object, he couldn’t bring it any clearer.

As he continued to observe, he felt a bead of sweat drool down the side of his face. He reached up and swatted it away. He breathed in the musky scent of his own sweat, mixed up with dirt and sand. It’d been a long journey for him to get this far, and he knew that his mind had been worn down. He needed to take some time to rest. Some time out of the saddle.

His horse, too, would thank him for that.

And now, here he was, seeing things.

Come on, Rut said, leading his horse by the reins, over to a spot in the terrain where the grasses were longer.

He recalled how, before he’d set off on this journey, his wife Emelda, had berated him not to become one of those madmen who started speaking with their horses when there was nobody else around to speak with. And although Rut had found his brain swilling with the oddness of the comment—for if there was no one to hear a madmen speaking with his horse then who would there be to tell about it?—he found his wife’s words ringing true.

He vaguely wondered what his wife might make of his appearance right now. Last night, when he’d got a look at himself in a mirror at the inn, he’d noted how his blond hair was grimy, his cheeks engrained with dust and dirt which wouldn’t be loosened with even near-scolding water. Even his light-blue eyes seemed to have sunk into a slightly mulchy-green shade.

Today, Rut had really hoped that it would be today.

That he’d manage to reach the sea.

But there was always tomorrow.

As Rut led his horse by the reins, toward the grassy spot, he could feel his stomach grumbling. He knew that there was precious little by way of supplies in the saddlebags.

Whatever remained would have to do.

Last night, in the inn, he had used the small amount of money which’d been left over to buy some more oats for his horse. Thankfully the well of drinking water around the back of the inn had been free for all guests to use.

Rut withdrew the leather bedroll which he had tied to the side of his horse, and laid it down on the ground. That done, he strapped the nosebag onto his horse and listened to the quiet sound of munching commence.

For himself there was only water.

He had finished the rest of the bread earlier in the day.

But Rut couldn’t care less . . . he had to rest now.

He needed to take a load off.

And, with one final look back to the horizon, searching for that flicker of light, Rut allowed himself to sink down onto his bedroll.

And to drift away into sleep.

2

Intruder

HILDIE WOKE WITH A START.

She heard voices chattering around her.

The sound of commotion that only an intruder could bring.

It was hot, and she’d hardly managed to drift away into sleep. She guessed that she’d been asleep for less than an hour. Her hut was made of rushes and held together with mud, and when she peered out through the mouldy material which hung down over the entrance, she saw that the sun had sunk beneath the horizon.

Night was here.

Today really had worn her out, and she hadn’t been able to resist the comfort of the warm, soft straw which her hut had offered.

She could still feel the slightly dizzying effect of the berry wine she had taken that afternoon. The now-bitter taste of it at the back of her mouth; the smell of the roasting pork still clung to the tunic she hadn’t bothered to change out of before falling into bed.

It had been a celebration, one of many which she hadn’t quite yet managed to wrap her head around. She was a stranger in a strange land.

And yet, all at the same time, she felt as if she had come home.

Perhaps she was coming to terms with the fact that she would always be an outsider.

No matter where she went.

Slowly, her mind caught up with the language outside.

The people she was staying with were known as the Almber, and their language had the same name . . . as far as she knew.

It was a hurried, mumbled language which made little sense to her unless she could see the accompanying frenetic hand gestures.

But she managed to get by.

And their kindness toward her more than made up for the difficulties of communication.

She’d only arrived here a year or so ago, after wandering about much of the tropical region; like a lost lamb looking for the trusty shepherd who’d long ago passed on.

Or was it more like a lonesome she-wolf searching for her next hunk of meat?

Judging by the reaction of the Almber to outsiders—and their reaction to her from the start—she supposed that they had been just as unsure.

Hildie eased herself up onto her elbow, favouring her good right arm as she always did. It had become second-nature to hide the scarred stump of her left hand from sight wherever she went, and with whatever she did, even when alone. The stump which remained of her left hand was a battle scar, of sorts, and one which—despite the offers of several well-meaning wise women and mages along her journey—she had never seen reason to heal.

As she sat up on her bed of straw, she attempted to make sense of the shadows scurrying past her hut in the fledgling torchlight.

The hut was just about big enough for herself, and she was somewhat honoured that the Almber had seen fit to build her her own hut. Especially since those first few days, just about the first week of her stay with them, had been so fraught.

The only issue with the hut was that the Almber, in general, having a much squatter build, hadn’t quite accounted for her size. She was a clear head and shoulders taller than even the largest of the men among them.

As it was, whenever Hildie stood up, she had to remind herself to bend over so that she wouldn’t bump her head on the wooden rafters.

She often forgot.

As Hildie slipped out past the mouldy material hanging across the entrance, and onto the beach, she stared out at the placid sea.

Despite the situation, despite the obvious excitement rippling along the beach among the Almber, Hildie couldn’t help but find herself attracted to the sea.

Being drawn in by it.

The moon was shining now, and its sallow light splashed across the surface of the water. She lost herself in a daze as she attempted to track the ever-changing shapes of the light; to try and find some sort of long-hidden meaning to them. Somebody had once told her that there were ‘clues’ in nature, that if a person could only learn to observe them then, why, the entire world would be their own.

The water swept in over the sandy beach, slick and smooth, and impossibly clear.

This was paradise, Hildie was certain.

This was paradise.

Now that night had fallen, Hildie felt a slight chill pass through her blood. She knew that it was the fire magic within her reacting; protesting against the night. She knew that it would’ve liked nothing better than to huddle down in the straw of her hut and snooze away . . . to wait for the flaming sun to rise again. Or, better still, for her to flop